


dwellings full of mirth

by missgiven



Series: trim the hearth & set the table [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale looks unreasonably attractive doing construction work, Established Relationship, Fixer Upper (HGTV), M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgiven/pseuds/missgiven
Summary: The cottage Crowley finds for himself and Aziraphale in the South Downs needs some sprucing up. Nothing they can't handle. The human way."He forced himself to remain calm. This was going to be a lovely time; he and Aziraphale would bond as they fixed up the old cottage. He couldn’t think of anything more poetic than taking an old, dilapidated home and working together to rebuild it with Aziraphale before they settled in to share their life there. They would be building a life together. It was potentially heavy-handed, as metaphors went, but Crowley felt very committed."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: trim the hearth & set the table [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564021
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94





	dwellings full of mirth

When Crowley had suggested one morning over breakfast, in a too-casual kind of voice, that they find a place that was _theirs_ , Aziraphale agreed readily enough. They’d grinned at one another stupidly until Crowley remembered the bed he’d “forgotten” to make that morning and scarpered. Always have an escape route, especially when feelings were in danger of being bandied about.

When Aziraphale mentioned carelessly, three months later, that he’d always fancied spending some time in the downland to the south, Crowley had pretended to be mostly absorbed in his phone.

He’d been “called on assignment” for the next week, conveniently enough, and when he came back to Aziraphale he was clutching a folder and his heart was thudding painfully in his chest.

“Got something for you,” he said roughly, after Aziraphale had kissed him senseless by way of greeting, and tossed the slightly crumpled folder on the desk next to them.

When Aziraphale took the photographs out of the folder, his face lit up.

“Is it —”

“It’s ours,” Crowley said. He felt all light and warm in his chest and in his throat as Aziraphale looked at the photograph, of the exterior of the little cottage (mid eighteenth century!) and the rolling downs beyond. “If you want it, of course. Otherwise I’ll see to it that the realtor forgets he sold it already. It’s not a big deal.”

Aziraphale turned through the remaining photographs, of the surrounding grounds of the house. There was a good sized garden, with space for vegetable and flower plots. There was even an orchard not far away. The rolling downs surrounding the cottage were breathtaking, even in the small photos Aziraphale held.

“I love it.”

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. He wondered if he should tell Aziraphale about his plans for the interior, but Aziraphale was whispering _“ours_ ” in the most reverent tone and coming to kiss him again, and after all, it was a brilliant plan, this surprise he had. There was nothing to worry about.

———

There had, of course, been a good deal to worry about.

Crowley had neglected to tell Aziraphale much about the state of the interior of the house, and Aziraphale had been too excited to ask. The further into planning they got, the more Crowley’s nerves grew. It was a foolishly romantic idea, brought about by too many late-night HGTV marathons. The Americans just made it look so terribly _fun._ The problem, of course, was breaking the news of the interior, and his plan as to what to do about it, to Aziraphale.

“What do you say to a _dirty_ weekend away?” Aziraphale asked, a few weeks after Crowley had shared the property photos. “Is there any furniture in the cottage? We can go get a feel for it, spruce up the place. Break in the bedroom.”

“Nhk,” Crowley said. Now would be the time to let Aziraphale know his great, _stupid_ plan. “I’d love to, angel.”

———

By the time they arrived to their cottage near Westmeston, Crowley was beside himself with nerves. He had not yet warned Aziraphale of the cottage’s dilapidated interior. As they drove up to the house, he briefly entertained a wild thought about surreptitiously applying a massive miracle to the cottage’s interior, but couldn’t justify the energy expenditure. He forced himself to remain calm. This was going to be a _lovely_ time; he and Aziraphale would _bond_ as they _fixed up_ the _old cottage._ He couldn’t think of anything more poetic than taking an old, dilapidated home and working together to rebuild it with Aziraphale before they settled in to share their life there. They would be _building a life together._ It was potentially heavy-handed, as metaphors went, but Crowley felt very committed. He did not send out any last-minute miracles.

(Well, he did send out one. He made sure the foundation was quite firm and free of significant sloping. Foundations, he had learned from multiple American television hosts, could be a right money pit.)

Aziraphale giggled to himself before they opened the front door.

“What?”

“Shall I carry you over the threshold?”

Crowley glared to cover the butterflies swarming around in his chest. “Under no circumstances.”

Aziraphale had a glint in his eye. There was no fighting him. Crowley tried to, but soon enough found himself carried in Aziraphale’s arms like a bride, scowling up at him while Aziraphale laughed and laughed.

One of them miracled the door open and Crowley watched Aziraphale’s face as he stepped inside their new home for the first time and immediately stopped laughing.

“I can explain!”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and became very still. He did not move to put Crowley down. Crowley clung tightly to Aziraphale’s neck and felt pathetic. He kept his gaze fixed on Aziraphale’s bowtie. He couldn’t bear to look around at the hideous walls, the gashes in the ceilings, the rotting carpets.

“It’s a fixer upper! I know it’s not much. I know it’s a tip. But I thought we could do it up ourselves.Build it up together. It was a…surprise. You know.”

“Ourselves?” Aziraphale repeated faintly.

“Yes? Like the Americans do. On television.”

“On television.”

“Yes. It could be fun?”

Aziraphale nodded his head slowly. “Or we could call _builders_ ,” he pointed out. “Who are _trained_ in this work. Crowley. _Dear_. I don’t believe you know the first thing about renovations.”

Crowley cringed and squirmed out of Aziraphale’s arms. He tried to look very handy and virile.

“But we can learn! Get our hands dirty. Don’t you like doing things the mortal way? It will be, er. Team building.”

Aziraphale frowned at him without saying anything for a long moment. Then he said, “I need a ride, if you please.”

———

Aziraphale made Crowley leave him at the library and promise not to come back until closing time. Crowley frittered the time away in a little cheese shop he found in the town. Aziraphale had not laughed or looked inclined towards fun _at all._ To say Crowley was feeling concerned about the turn events had taken was an understatement. He purchased a decadent array of cheeses, three bottles of the best-looking wine he could find, tea, and a packet of biscuits. Gifts. His biggest gift to date — the opportunity to _literally build a home together_ — might have been a shocking bust, but he could still deliver _something_.

He found a bakery as well. There, he bought a loaf of bread to eat with the cheese, and a pastry and espresso for his nerves. He threw back the espresso and spent the next half hour vibrating out of his skin and tearing his pastry into tiny shreds.

Errands done, he drove the Bentley back to the library where he waited, waited, waited.

Finally Aziraphale came out of the library, arms full of books. Crowley hopped out to open the door for him.

Crowley reached his arms out to help with the books. He caught a few titles: O _ld House Handbook; Master Basic DIY; Period Property;_ and the _Building Regulations Pocket Book_. “Oh no,” he said to Aziraphale. “You’ve been reading.”

Aziraphale looked up with a Gleam in his eye.

“Oh yes, I have, sweetheart,” he said. Crowley always knew he was in for A Time when Aziraphale called him _sweetheart._ “If this project is important to you. _You_ are important to _me._ We will rebuild our new home together.”

———

To Crowley’s credit, he lasted a solid week before he completely abandoned his fantasy of happy homebuilders.

On the seventh day, God rested, and so did Aziraphale and Crowley. They both took rest days _very_ seriously.

Crowley had been losing steam significantly since day three. Come to find out, renovating a house the mortal way was in fact very difficult work. On the morning of the eighth day, Crowley woke up with every intention of turning to Aziraphale, saying, “you know what angel? You were right. Let’s call the contractors,” and then instigating a repeat of the previous day’s _leisure activities._ Yesterday, they had begun to get a start on Aziraphale’s idea of a dirty weekend, and Crowley felt keen to finish it out, and to hell (or wherever) with the home-reno lark.

When he woke to the sound of industrious hammering and a cold bed, he groaned.

Because Aziraphale had, to the amazement of them both, taken to the home-reno lark like a duck to water.

Where Crowley had held romantic fantasies of wiping the sweat off each other’s brows, clipping through a room a day, and regular candlelit picnics on the floor that turned into _other_ candlelit activities on the floor, Aziraphale found the actual process of handiwork to be invigorating. Crowley was, as ever, there for the aesthetic. He liked the planning and the maths, actually, but couldn’t abide the actual work. But Aziraphale’s warrior’s muscles, so long used merely for stacking books and signing cheques, seemed to relish the physical labor.

He reached down to grab a clean shirt from the suitcase by their bed. (They’d miracled several more changes of clothes down from London when it became clear “weekend” meant “weeks”. The bed had been one thing Crowley _had_ made sure to have in the cottage in anticipation of their visit.)

He came down the stairs wearing only a shirt of Aziraphale’s and a pair of boxer briefs. He followed the sound of hammering to the mudroom. He found Aziraphale setting in a window frame.

“Hello, dearest,” Aziraphale said brightly. Crowley stared. Aziraphale had got comfortable stripping off layers to play “workman” as the week went on, but Crowley was still not used to the sight of Aziraphale in only trousers and a thin undershirt, braces slung low over his hips. Crowley groaned slightly at the sight, then got himself together.

“I was thinking,” he said. “About what you said about builders. A week ago.”

Aziraphale looked at him askance, took a moment to appreciate Crowley’s state of undress, then went back to hammering away at the window frame. “Nonsense. You told me you wanted to rebuild this house together! I wish, of course, that you’d told me sooner — ”

“Sorry — ”

“But once I got over the shock of your suggestion, I’ve realized what an awful lot of fun I’m having. It was a lovely idea! Won’t you get dressed? After I’ve finished this it’s time to refinish the wood floors!”

Crowley groaned again, more significantly this time.

Aziraphale flashed him a winning smile that had rather too many teeth. “Go get dressed, sweetheart.”

The absolute _bastard._

Crowley did as he was told.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a 1918 hymn called “What is new upon the earth?”
> 
> Prompt taken from the instagram AdventWord. Day 4: Humble.


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